The Time Traveler
by Alais Kingsleigh
Summary: Hermione was meant to die that night. She was meant to die a gruesome death and live on through her works. Her murder was the headline of several newspapers both magical and not. He was an Unspeakable almost a hundred years from the future who fell in love with her through her work. He couldn't let her die. He has to save her. Would she let him?
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Hermione was meant to die that night. She was meant to die a gruesome death and live on through her works. Her murder was the headline of several newspapers both magical and not. He was an Unspeakable almost a hundred years from the future who fell in love with her through her work. He couldn't let her die. He has to save her. Would she let him?

* * *

A/N: Inspired by the plot of Holly Lisle's "Last Thorsday Night" which was published as a short story from "Mammoth Books of Time Travel Romance" by Trisha Telep. I didn't earn anything from writing this and please don't sue me. This series is already complete but I will be updating the next two chapters in a few days' time. I used the image of my beloved Takeshi Kaneshiro from his movie, "This is Not What I Expected" and the character's name, John Liu from "Turn Left, Turn Right".

* * *

 **The Time Traveler**

* * *

My good friend and former boyfriend, Ron Weasley told me once I have never experienced life. Beyond the "thrill" of war and the adrenaline rush it gave that led to our then relationship, I realized later that I've never truly been in love.

They call it PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. An illness that afflicted soldiers even long after the war has ended. It never really ended for us. Going away from the England helped. I e-mail them from time to time but I have been avoiding a more steady communication, given how Ronald's new bride seems to have an unreasonable intense hatred of me.

Our writing group; nicknamed Merlin's Imaginarium were getting down to business when a cold autumn wind swirled through the room, leaving a tall, rugged Asian guy in its wake. He stood in the doorway, looking a little lost and a lot out of place. He is man who did not belong. Believe me when I tell you, it's hard to look out of place in a writers' group- especially ours, consisting of wizards and witches who live in both magical and non-maj (as muggles are called in the US) realm.

Let me count down the regular members of our group. There's Salazar who is working on his Potions mastery. He has a seeming mandatory waist length ponytail, a beard that can rival the late Dumbledore and surprisingly mundane no-maj tweed suits.

Grant who is only into cross overs wore black robes and pale make-up (some people in our group suggests he might be a vampire).

There's small statured and petite Nanette whose tiny heroines reminds you of her but in her stories, her tiny heroines can beat any wizard up. She has flaming red hair and the cutest freckles on her nose.

There is Hector who writes about Zombies and Dystopic societies, his body is fully of moving tattoos that he can never go around the no-maj world without long sleeves, a hood, socks and shoes. He'd also need some mask because that pixie tattoo of his always gets on his face.

Nimue wrote about strong enchantresses who conquered the world by seducing men. She is the most beautiful one of our group.

Even I, with my wild bushy hair am not exactly a ninja material. I also favor Mrs. Weasley's annually sent sweaters which always have something moving or flying in it. Today's sweater has cats that resembles Crookshanks.

By contrast, the new comer's black hair was cut as short as a naval officer and he wore plain no-maj clothes of solid color white with a pocket (no bright and odd patterns, weird sayings or flying brooms) and crisp jeans that looked good on his long legs (I admit I was inwardly drooling at this moment). He looked to be in his early 40s, have well-defined muscles but what he did not have was a "Look".

"Sorry I'm late," he said to Salazar, and I swear I could feel my knickers hit the floor at the deep rumble of his voice. He had such a sexy voice. "I'm sorry I got lost. I said a wrong address number to my floo. Thank you for inviting me." He said extending his hand to shake Salazar's who shook it.

He glanced at everyone in the room. But I didn't think I imagined it when his gaze lingered or dare I say studied me for a longer moment than everyone else, and gave me the sort of smile a child gives a chocolate bar. He strode through the circle of folding chairs and took the empty seat to the right of mine. I could feel my jaw drop in disbelief. Why?

Since I'm the woman men notice when there aren't any busty twenty-something goddesses or veela like girls around. We have both, and they had empty seats next to them, too. While it is true that after all these years I am known as a member of the Golden Trio, the lack of communications and distrust between the American Wizarding World and ours means my fame barely followed me in this continent.

The new guy swung his enormous backpack to the floor beside him, where it made a substantial thud, pulled a legal pad and pen out of it, then leaned over to me and whispered, "What have I missed?" To say I was speechless was an understatement. Years as a plain teenager at Hogwarts where I wasn't the first choice for a girlfriend tend to play its drums on my ego.

I managed to find my voice though, and I said, "Pizza. When Salazar hosts, he always has pizza for us before the meeting." "No writing yet?" He asked. "No. Official start time is in ten minutes. You're not actually late," I told him. "We 're waiting for two other writers to arrive – Yvonne, who has a long drive to get here, and Elphias." I'd been halfheartedly and sporadically dating Elphias for about four months, a fact I suddenly wished wasn't true.

Elphias arrived like the king for his coronation, spotted the stranger sitting beside me, and glared at him. He came over and took the empty seat on my other side, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Who's he?" "New guy," I whispered back. "Salazar invited him. We haven't done introductions yet. We're still waiting on Yvonne."

Yvonne Cauldwell was our resident professional writer. She had fifteen published novels (both in the magical realm and in the no-maj), plus a bunch of shorts in various magazines. Yvonne actually wrote for a living. She was the one whose criticisms we all saved and double-checked as we were writing and revising. The rest of us were wannabes. I was in the process of translating and editing _"The Tales of Beedle the Bard"_ but it's not as if I actually wrote it.

I do write. Several completed novels from different points in my life gathered dust and mouse droppings in the trunk at the foot of my bed. I just could not muster the courage to send out any of them. After a year in the group, I'd finally brought myself to read The Shadows Beyond the Veil, the best of my trunk novels, to everyone. Yvonne told me I should send it out, that it was really good. But I hadn't. I couldn't.

Next to me, the stranger was introducing himself. I realized Yvonne had come in and taken her seat while my head was in the clouds. "Thanks, Salazar," the stranger said. "I'm John Liu. I'm just getting started writing. I didn't bring anything to read tonight. I want to see how this works first." Both Nanette and Nimue oozed "Hi, John," in melting tones. Beside me, Elphias snorted.

"I'm Hermione," I told John. "I write, but I haven't sold anything yet."

John looked into my eyes and smiled again. All he said was, "Wonderful to meet you," but he said it like he meant it. He sounds like he really meant it. Like meeting me was the most important thing he'd done all year.

There may be a moment in every woman's life when she sees someone she doesn't know and, for just that moment, wants what she cannot have because every cell in her body is screaming at her that this this is the person she's supposed to be with. Or maybe that's just me. But right then, right there, feeling the bass vibrations of John's voice resonating in my chest, staring back into his eyes, with his left knee bumping my right one . . . that was my moment.

I think it was love at first sight.

I could feel Elphias stiffen in the seat on my other side. He put his arm around me and said, "I'm Elphias Delphinus Squill, the defense attorney..." He worked between the magical and no-maj community given how his weak magic made him almost a squib (Ilvermony is more open at accepting students with less magical abilities than Hogwarts). But he of course masks it by pretending he prefers to live as hard as his no-maj family do and that he admires hard work. "...I intend to be the John Grisham of the wizardry world." He said.

He was a Merlin's Imaginarium charter member, and he'd been using that as his introduction since I joined. Don't judge me, we've all dated a loser. I can't even bear to introduce him to Harry and Ron because I know both will make fun of him and Ginny would probably try to set me up with dozens of someone else. Luna would say some weird thing or another. I seriously regret dating this guy.

John called him on it. "Elliot Spavin had already done that twenty years ago." This caused Hector and Nanette, who couldn't stand Elphias, to burst out laughing. Giggles echoed around the rest of the room. I stifled my own laugh, but not fast enough.

Elphias's arm around me tightened. Everyone could feel the palpable tension between the two.

After Hector finished reading his latest reworking of his third chapter, which should in my humble opinion be the chapter where he kills off his utterly unlikeable main character, John gave Elphias a sidelong glance that would have killed small animals at a hundred yards.

Elphias glared at John and groped me, and I shook him off. The two of us were not there – never had been. They were two big hippogriffs, circling. I had no idea what was going on. But whatever it was, it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Halfway through the meeting, Elphias leaned over and murmured in my ear, "Why don't we get out of here and go to your place? I have court tomorrow morning, and I don't think I can stand any more of Nimue reading."

While I dislike listening to Nimue's sex filled chapter; I was sitting beside the handsome enigma. The burning question on my mind was, if I hung around, would he smile at me again? Besides, Merlin's Imaginarium meetings only happened every other week, and I loved them.

"I still haven't read yet," I told him. "I brought chapter one of my new story, and I want to get some feedback."

Elphias said, "Read it another night. I don't want you going home alone. I don't trust your neighborhood," but he wasn't looking at me when he said it. He was looking at John Liu.

John Liu then said, "Hermione, please stay and read your chapter. I'd love to hear it." He looked past me to Elphias. "I'll see her home, or one of the other men here will." "She doesn't know you, and neither do I," Elphias said.

Elphias had a point. John's interest in me, in my writing . . . it was completely out of place. It unnerved me. But I didn't want to leave the meeting. I was having fun.

There was something off in Elphias possessiveness, seeing that we've only gone out a few times and we weren't a couple. We hadn't even slept together and I always made it a point to kick him out at during those two times he did drive me home. There was something in him that creeped me out, which I couldn't quite figure out why. One time he even brought me breakfast and for some reason it scared me.

"I haven't invited you over," I told Elphias. "…And I'm having fun. My neighborhood's good, and I'll be fine." He looked completely unbothered that I'd blown him off. "I'll drop by first thing in the morning, sweetheart," he said, loud enough that Nimue stopped reading, which was a blessing, and that everyone else looked at the two of us with surprise, which was awkward.

Elphias was one of those men who didn't get it. We weren't working out, but he seemed to think we were. I decided in that instant that our last date would be the last. I'm never going out with him again. "I'll bring you breakfast, baby," he added.

He might as well have peed on my leg. He was telling John, "Don't be there," without actually coming out and saying it. As if John and I . . . well, as if there were any possibility for there being a "John and I".

"Don't," I said. I was glad to see Elphias leave.

The rest of the evening was fun. Long, but fun. I read, and people made useful comments. John sat silent after I finished reading, blinking like he was trying not to cry, which was crazy, because my first chapter wasn't sad at all. He reached over and touched my hand once, just brushed it, and said, "Thank you."

I didn't know what to make of that.

Yvonne read. Salazar read. The Merlin's Imaginariumers talked. We laughed.

* * *

At 3 a.m., we were all packing up and telling tired, silly jokes just prior to heading out the door, when John stepped in front of me and took a deep breath and said, "Before you go, can I show you something?"

I looked at the earnest expression on his face, and said, "Sure."

He turned so his back was to everyone in the room but me, and pulled a book out of his backpack. He put a finger to his lips, then handed it over. I took it, turned it over, and saw the title. The Shadows Beyond the Veil.

It was my title. My heart started to race, and when I glanced at the author's name, I had to sit down. Hermione Granger.

It was a new copy, printed beautifully by a publisher I'd never heard of. I opened it to the middle and out of habit sniffed the pages. There is no smell like book. I turned to the copyright page and closed my eyes.

The Shadows Beyond the Veil was in its thirty-seventh printing, with a copyright renewal in the name of the Estate of Elphias Delphinus Squill. It had a print date more than fifty years in the future.

I turned to the back of the book, to the author photo on the inside flap of the dust jacket. The picture was mine – one Elphias had talked me into having taken only a few weeks earlier. "Because you're so pretty," he said, "and when you're famous, you're going to want a nice picture of you when you were young to go inside your books."

It was the stupidest reason I'd ever heard for someone wanting a photo. I figured he'd just wanted it for himself. But there it was. I turned to the first page. The words were my words. I handed the book back to John, and saw how badly my hand was shaking. John took it, and touched my fingers lightly in the process. What he said next was the biggest understatement I'd ever heard.

"We need to talk."


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: Hermione was meant to die that night. She was meant to die a gruesome death and live on through her works. Her murder was the headline of several newspapers both magical and not. But he fell in love with her through her work. He couldn't let her die. He has to save her. Would she let him?

* * *

A/N: Inspired by the plot of Holly Lisle's "Last Thorsday Night" which was published as a short story from "Mammoth Books of Time Travel Romance" by Trisha Telep. I didn't earn anything from writing this and please don't sue me. This series is already complete but I will be updating the next two chapters in a few days' time. I used the image of my beloved Takeshi Kaneshiro from his movie, "This is Not What I Expected" and the character's name, John Liu from "Turn Left, Turn Right".

* * *

 **The Time Traveler**

* * *

We went to a 24-hour fast food chain. It had the advantage of being public while still being anonymous.

"The Shadows Beyond the Veil" was the manuscript Elphias had asked to read the one time he "hung out" at my house because he said his nerves were frayed with an upcoming court battle. I would have been insulted, but Elphias did not exactly have a way with tact. I'd put it down to him being him, and hadn't thought about it again.

But now I needed an explanation. How and where had my novel come to be published? What did the date and number of printings on the copyright page mean? Why did Elphias's estate own the copyright? How had John gotten his hands on it?

I couldn't order or eat anything. I didn't think I was going to like what he would say and I don't trust my stomach to hold down anything. John, on the other hand practically most items on the menu.

He started by saying, "I shouldn't here. This is going to be very complicated. But I love your books. You've been my favorite author for years."

I shivered at another thought I have yet to explore. I would be dead when this gets published. "You want a sweater?" he asked. "I have one in my bag."

"I'm fine," I lied. He shook his head. He reminds me of Kingsley when you lie to him. He suddenly looked so serious. "No, you're not." He replied.

I just sighed. He'd sat beside me at Merlin's Imaginarium, he'd smiled at me, and he'd made my heart beat faster. But now everything had gotten scary, and I had to ask. "You're not from this place are you?"

He took out a somehow familiar yet different time turner. I thought those have all been destroyed. " I'm an Unspeakable. British Institute of Historical Research, Time Validation Division," he said. "Ministry of Magic. Department of Mysteries."

"That's where. How about when?" I have travelled to past before but I don't think anyone went quite as far as this guy did. There was something that tells me he is from a distant future. From what I surmise, I knew that I would eventually get the nerve to send out my work and that somehow it would sell. But the idea that I might also end up marrying Elphias made me want to puke.

John nodded. "I'm from about eighty years ahead. But you and I don't have much time. But right now, I'm not important. You have to know the truth about you before you go home tonight." Something about the way he said "tonight" made my skin crawl.

"Why tonight?" I asked worriedly.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a ring binder. It was gunmetal grey, and made of a material as cool and hard as metal, but as pliant as plastic, impressively high tech looking for something so simple.

He handed it to me, and said, "Skim. You'll get the essence of this fast."

The binder held copies of newspaper articles far more exotic than the originals had ever been: the paper was creamy with a semi-gloss finish, and the words on the first page scrolled down as I read them. I didn't have to touch anything. The paper seemed to be tracking my eye movement and helpfully putting the next words I needed to read where I needed them to be.

Any doubts I had about the legitimacy of my printed book were laid to rest by the binder with its interactive high technology. John Liu was from the future. The date on the first article was tomorrow . . . no. We weren't in the middle of Merlin's Imaginarium anymore. We'd slipped into plain old Friday morning. The paper's date was today. The headline read BRITISH WAR HEROINE KILLED BY A NO-MAJ HOME INTRUDER. The photo Elphias had badgered me into getting identified me as "woman slain". A no-maj paper read a different headline. BRITISH EX-PAT KILLED IN A HOME INVASION.

I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around myself. "I should have let Elphias take me home," I said.

"No," John said. "You did the right thing. Just keep skimming."

There was an article where Elphias said my murder was a huge tragedy, that I'd just sold my first novel, that we were engaged, that I had no one else in the world. The most ludicrous thing was his assertion that we'd been so happy together. The part about me having no one else in the world was true enough as they are mostly a continent away. However, everything else was a lie.

Through newspaper articles, videos ( which were also on the amazing paper, with sound included, currently the magical realm only have moving pictures) and copies of legal documents dated well into the future, I discovered that Elphias had somehow had himself designated the executor of my estate. He'd managed my first novel sale into a bestseller by playing heavily on my emerging talent cut short by the tragedy of my brutal murder. I tried hard not to think too much about the "brutal" part.

It didn't hurt that the books had been good. But the promotion had been inspired.

I looked up at John. "I've loved you… I mean your work since I found the first book by you," he said. He put his hand on mine and said, "You are a brilliant writer and I lo-" He shook his head.

I looked at him quizzically. He looked so boyish despite being in what seemed to be his early 40s.

I struggled to grasp what he was trying to convey.

He touched a finger to my lips and said, "You have to understand the situation fast. Because there are some choices you must make. I need to know what you want. Your works have become classics in my time. Millions of people have read you, have had their lives changed and made better by your stories. You're famous, you're beloved."

He took a deep breath, and continued, "But all the probabilities suggest that your work only found its audience because you died so horribly – and because Elphias Delphinus Squill jumped in to market your just-sold book on your death. The odds are that if you had lived, all seven of your novels would have stayed in the trunk in your bedroom, along with any others that you might have written, and neither I nor anyone else would have ever heard of you."

I drew a sharp breath at that. If I died later this morning, I could be famous. Big-time famous. My words would live on long past my final breath. I would achieve the sort of literary immortality most writers dream of – and almost none get.

If I lived, odds were good that when I was dead no one would know I'd been here. He was watching my eyes, looking for answers there. I doubted he could find any. I buried my face in my hands.

I loved writing and I loved the stories I told, the characters I created, the themes I explored and pursued and eventually pinned down and answered. I wanted people to read what I'd done, to love it as much as I did. I wanted to leave something of me behind when I was gone.

But I loved breathing, too. I loved waking up in the morning to the sunlight falling across my face. I loved walking the block to work, where I was a copywriter for a small ad agency. I loved the taste of cherries in summer and apples in autumn, the way my muscles burned when I stretched, and the way my heart pounded in rhythm with my feet when I ran.

I could be immortal if I died today. I could be nobody at all if I lived tomorrow. But the odds were I couldn't have both my life and my fame.

"Writers dream about reaching millions," I said. "But we also dream about being around to enjoy it."

He nodded. "I know and I can't know how long you will live if you don't die today, or how much more you will write. There are no odds for that, no way to predict, no way to track what didn't happen. But I can tell you . . . having heard the first chapter of your new book, I would give anything to read the rest of it." I frowned. "Only . . . whether I live or die, you never will. Because either I won't live to write it . . . or I won't manage to publish it."

"Those aren't exactly the options. Don't worry about what comes next or about me. Tell me what you want now. Do you want to become as famous as well, not Shakespeare, but as famous as Tolkien, if you have to die today to do it? I know some writers would give anything for that guarantee." He took a deep breath, and said, "Or would you want to live, knowing that if you do, odds are no one will ever know who you were?"

"How long do I have to make up my mind?" I asked. "Your murder happens at 6:24 a.m." He answered quietly.

* * *

I looked at my watch. It was 4:10 a.m. I put my hand on his and said, "I have to go home. I want you to come with me." "I . . ." He looked away and blinked and swallowed, and I saw one tear slide down the side of his nose. Without another word, he went to the counter and paid the bill, and we walked out together.

He was staring at his shoes as he walked me to my car. "So you have decided? You want to die and be famous in the world you leave behind?"

"No, John. I just want to know there's something worth living for. I had to go back to my place. My gut demanded it, but my mind wouldn't say why. I couldn't run away. Well, I could – running away had been what I'd been best at my whole life, frankly. The British wizardry world, jobs, family, friends, relationships…

But holding the book I'd written in my hands and knowing I hadn't lived to see it published, that someone I didn't like much had taken my work and my passion and made it successful after I was dead because I hadn't had the guts to even try while I was alive. I had to go back to my place. I didn't know what was going to happen there, but I wanted to have a say in what did.

John didn't talk much on the drive over. He sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. When I glanced over at him I could see the muscles in his jaw working. I realized he was angry. I wasn't sure why. Finally he said, "You know why I came back?"

I should have asked that. "No."

"I've been reading and rereading your books since I was fifteen. They changed me. They gave me a way of looking at the world that I don't think I could have found on my own. I'm a better man because I read you than I ever would have been without you. There are a lot of people like me out there, which is why your books are still selling. You said something that mattered. "But," he continued, "the whole story of how you died never felt right to me. Your lawyer fiancé—"

"Elphias has never been my fiancé. He's someone I've gone out with about maybe a couple of times in the last four months. He belongs to the same writers' group I do. That's it."

John bit his lip and took a deep breath, and I realized my relationship with Elphias was beside the point at the moment.

"The man everyone in my time thinks was your lawyer fiancé told a good story. He had all the paperwork to prove you'd made him your designated heir and the executor of your estate. The signature on your publishing contract perfectly matched the signatures on everything else he had on his desk—"

"I never signed a contract," I said.

"I know that now," he said, and the muscles in his jaw jumped harder. I told myself to shut up and let the man finish. He said, "In my time, I went through everything available on your life, because there was this air of wrongness about your lawyer."

I forced my mouth shut, but I thought, 'He's not my lawyer', as loudly as I could.

"When I read the interviews that didn't get wide coverage, I realized your Merlin's Imaginarium Writers were too surprised that the two of you were engaged, and absolutely flat-footed that you'd sold a novel and hadn't even mentioned it at the last meeting you attended. Another clue I had was when I've interviewed Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, who are both still alive in my time, both claimed they didn't knew you were even seeing someone exclusively. Despite the distance, they both said you e-mailed them constantly."

He glanced over at me, his expression unreadable. "So I became a field historian, I was already an Unspeakable, a time-travelling researcher, because I needed to know the truth. At the back of my mind I always held this tiny hope that one day I might be able to travel back to see you while you were alive. Maybe even talk to you. Even though it would be nothing consequential and certainly nothing that would change anything but I just held that hope." His voice broke, and his body tensed.

I sat silent for a moment. "But now you're doing something that is almost certain to change the future," I said. "Why?"

"One week ago in my time, I made a registered trip back to this morning. I went a few hours from now, to your apartment. I'd spent the last two years building a case against Elphias Delphinus Squill being your legitimate heir, and I presented my case to the Head of Literature Research. Because you're an important historical figure both as an author and as a Second Wizardry War Heroine; my request to validate Elphias Squill's story about his association with you went through. I was allowed to come back here, set up recorders in your room and in Elphias's home and office to document the specific details of your death and his actions following it. Once the recorders were in place, I had to leave. I couldn't be in the room because just my presence could break the rules of historical engagement."

"I did the standard surveillance to a point when I knew both apartments and the office would be empty, and I dropped myself in, removed the recorders, and went back to my own time."

"One week ago – in my time – I saw the man who killed you break into your room, almost the way Elphias said it had happened. Except that prior to his breaking in, Elphias used his key to let himself into your apartment while you were still at the meeting, and unlocked your bedroom window. I saw him do it. And I saw the intruder . . ."

John's voice broke again. He took a deep breath as I pulled into the parking lot in front of my apartment. It was same apartment in which an unlocked window would be used by a murderer intent on killing me. But I'd never given Elphias a key to my place. But he had spent an afternoon over, the next day had brought me breakfast. I was having a headache so I just let him in and slept while he said he'll hang out. He probably copied my keys then.

John said, "The intruder slapped duct tape over your mouth while you were sleeping, and then . . ." He shook his head. "He brought both a knife and a gun. You didn't die quickly. It was the . . . horrific details of your murder that made your death famous enough to guarantee immediate public recognition when your publisher overnighted your book to the stands. The American wizardry world was in fear that a witch of your caliber was killed by a no-maj and it also caused no-maj hatred for a while. Several million copies of your first novel sold. The quality of your work and Elphias advertising the tragedy of your death every time he and your publisher brought another one of your trunk novels to print – kept you a household name. But …"

He turned and stared into my eyes. "You weren't yet dead and your killer was still busy with you when Elphias got there."

"…And tried to save me?" I asked hoping against hope.

We sat there in the parking lot, in the dark, and John took my hand, and held it tightly between both of his. It was as if our hands had been created just to fit into each other like that.

He said, "No. Elphias told the killer to hurry up, because he had other things to do."

I was stunned. I fell into the darkness inside my head for a long time, until pain pulled me back to the world. I realized the stick shift was digging into my right hip, and that John had his arms around me, and that I was sobbing into his shirt.

"Merlin," I whispered. "You came back to what? If you change history and I don't die, wouldn't it be improbable for you to read my books? Won't there be a paradox that will make it impossible for you to come back at all? The fact that you're here means that I have to die, doesn't it? You just came to be with me or to give me something to put me to sleep or something so my death wouldn't be so awful, and then you're going back . . ."

"No," he said. "You don't have to die. I'm not here officially. It took me a week, in my time, to arrange my absence and bribe the people who could get me here. If you wanted to guarantee that your work would live on after you do, I did bring something you could take so that you wouldn't wake up during your murder." His arms tightened around me, and his voice went hoarse. "If that was what you wanted…" I could feel how strongly he felt at that moment.

"But that's not why I came back. That's not why I became a historical researcher. That's not why I specialized in literary research. Hermione, I fell in love with you through your books when I was fifteen. You were in them, in every one of them, and I wanted to meet you. In person, at the meeting tonight, you were the woman who wrote those books. I was afraid I'd be disappointed, that you wouldn't be anything like what came through in your work- but it was you. The you, I'd known existed. The you, I've loved for half of my life."

"If I don't die, you'll never read me. You'll never become a historical researcher."

"I'm here, Hermione. And I've already read every book you wrote, and I loved every word, but more than the books, I love the woman who wrote them. And I'd rather have you alive and unknown than dead for the betterment of millions of strangers. That's selfish. But just knowing that you didn't die today would get me through a whole lot of years."

"If I live, you'll lose your job, won't you?" He managed a laugh. "It's more complicated than that. But yes. At the very least, I'll lose my job." I felt his hands against my back clench into fists. "Screw the job."

I pulled out of his embrace. "How much time do we have before... you have to go back?"

"The killer comes through the window at 6:24 a.m. We have one hour and forty-eight minutes."

"Come on," I told him. "We have to hurry."

I nearly dragged him through the door and locked it behind us.

"You love me?" I whispered when we were inside. "I love you," he said.

"I've never been in love," I told him. "I've never had anyone who loved me. I have friends but my family doesn't remember me anymore. I've wanted, dreamed, hoped, and looked. But there was never anyone. There may never be anyone again." I reached up and touched his face. "But right now, just this once, I want to know what it feels like to be loved and to love. In the little time we have, can we do that?"


	3. Chapter 3

Summary: Hermione was meant to die that night. She was meant to die a gruesome death and live on through her works. Her murder was the headline of several newspapers both magical and not. But he fell in love with her through her work. He couldn't let her die. He has to save her. Would she let him?

* * *

A/N: Inspired by the plot of Holly Lisle's "Last Thorsday Night" which was published as a short story from "Mammoth Books of Time Travel Romance" by Trisha Telep. I didn't earn anything from writing this and please don't sue me. This series is already complete but I will be updating the next two chapters in a few days' time. I used the image of my beloved Takeshi Kaneshiro from his movie, "This is Not What I Expected" and the character's name, John Liu from "Turn Left, Turn Right".

Hi morganna12! You are awesome and the only person who left a review here so yay!

* * *

 **The Time Traveler**

* * *

He pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I don't know about perfect kisses. I know only that I will never forget that one. In John's touch, in his taste, in his hunger lay the promise of a lifetime of wonder. We held each other, undressed each other, moved over and against and into each other. I knew that our one brief moment wasn't going to be enough.

We made love. This was everything. It was in an unspoken understanding of each other. I felt like I know him and at the same time, I wanted to get to know him better. It was something I'm probably never going to have again. There wasn't ever going to be another moment for us and I know there wasn't ever going to be another him for me.

We lay in my bed afterwards, and I realized he was looking at me with a worried expression. "I'm sorry?" he said worriedly. I realized I was crying.

"It wasn't you. You're amazing. You're wonderful. I just…" I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath and said, "I've been waiting all my life to meet the man I wanted to be with. I knew when I found him, I'd know. Now I know and I can't have you."

"You would want me?" He asked in an incredulous tone.

"I do want you." He looked away, and I saw his jaw working again. Under his breath, he muttered something that sounded a lot like "No guarantees." and then he said, "Your computer is it on? Is your internet connection working?"

"I shut down the computer, but I have broadband. The internet will work as soon as the computer comes on."

He nodded, pulled on underwear and his jeans, grabbed his backpack. He said, "We're almost out of time. I'll be right back. Stay here."

I nodded, and he jogged out of the bedroom. I wondered what he wanted with my computer. I wondered even more what he wanted with the internet. I heard the computer's boot-up sound, and him walking around in the living room, and then a couple of quick taps on the keyboard. Then I heard nothing. I waited. His instruction of "stay here" had sounded important so I stayed.

Then I heard footsteps on the little patio outside my bedroom window, and I looked at the clock.

It read 6:23 a.m. I stopped thinking at all.

I stared at the window, shuddering, willing my body to move. I heard the aluminum frame start sliding open. The blinds were drawn, so I was in near blackness. There were no sounds from the living room any more. Which meant…? That John had realized he was out of time, and had used the internet to connect to his time travel device?

That he'd been beamed home? Or that time had grabbed him and ripped him away from me while he was trying to stop it? It didn't matter. He was gone. There was a killer outside my window.

I grabbed my wand and moved fast, because there wasn't much time. I ran to the window.

The digital display on my alarm clock changed to 6:24 a.m. There were no more sounds outside my window. But John had been very clear: 6:24. He'd seen the recording of my murder.

6:24 became 6:25 a.m, and someone politely tapped on the glass. Tapped?

Wand at the ready, I gave the roll-up blind a quick tug. It shot upwards and rattled around its spindle for a second before falling silent. On the other side of the window stood floated an unconscious complete stranger. He was stunned and behind him stood John, shirtless and rumpled. The bat the stranger carried dropped to the floor with a clang, and I stared. It was 6:25 a.m., and John had not vanished into the future.

John was still here and looking a little uncomfortable. "Let us in before someone sees us."

"Oh." I opened the window, and my would-be killer came through head first, propelled by a vicious shove from behind by John. John followed, with a speed and grace that made my heart thud in my throat.

"You're here." I said in an almost breathless tone.

"We'll deal with that later," he said. Up close, I could see that he was going to have a bad bruise under his right eye, and that his lip was split and bleeding. "We still don't have a lot of time."

He handed me a gun. "This is his," he said, kicking the hit man in the thigh. "Shoot him with it if he so much as twitches. No-maj are more scared of guns than wands." I shrugged my shoulders just enough that John caught the gesture.

"Never shot a gun?" He asked. I shook my head.

He stepped behind me, reached around me with both arms, and thumbed the safety off. (I looked at the red dot staring back at me – "red is dead", I remembered someone telling me once.) He put me in a shooting stance with the gun aimed at the killer's chest. "He makes one move, you pull the trigger. Can you do that?"

"Yes," I said. "I can do that."

He ran into the living room and came back with a manila envelope. He thumbed through it and pulled out one of those amazing sheets of paper of his. Then he crouched in front of the killer, he used wandless magic to position the killer upright and then ended the stunning spell.

"Look at this," he said at my confused would be killer.

I could not see what they were looking at, but I did see all the color drain from the killer's face.

"How did you…?"

I could not see the page in front of them, but I could hear it. Moaning and whimpering, and a man laughing, and then the front door opened. "Kale, you here?" It was Elphias's voice.

The voice of the other man said, "Finishing up. You said make it chaotic."

"Yeah. Chaotic." A pause, then, "Look. I have a list of things to do after this, and I need her to still be warm when I make the 911 call. So wrap it up."

One wet noise and there were sounds of footsteps. The killer's eyes were bugging out as he tried to say something but the silencing charm John just casted won't let him.

John touched the surface of the paper and the sound stopped. He said, "I'll make it so you can talk again, but if you make any loud noises, she's going to kill you. You understand that?" The killer nodded.

John ended the silencing charm wandlessly.

"I never did that, man. It isn't me."

John touched the paper again. "That's what you came here to do."

"No. Just rob the place. Seriously. That isn't me, man."

"See how I can make the picture bigger?"

The man nodded.

John dragged a finger along the front of the page I could not see. "See how I can turn the image to get your full face? I can zoom in close enough to reveal your individual fingerprints. Want me to show you?"

Kale shook his head. "What is that?"

"New police surveillance technology."

"But I didn't do that…"

"You haven't yet and what happened next hasn't happened yet, either."

From the page in John's hand, I heard Elphias's voice. "Holy shit, what a mess."

"You said…"

"Yeah." I heard Elphias gagging and then vomiting. "It stinks! How can you stand it?" Elphias said. "You guaranteed I walk on the Burgess murders is how. No death penalty, no life in prison. I get a dismissal. We all have our needs, man."

"You'll get your dismissal," Elphias snarled. "Get out of here. Let me do what I have to do now." I heard boots hitting the floor, and more walking and then I heard an unmistakable gunshot. There was a heavy thud of a body falling.

"There's your dismissal, you freak," Elphias's voice said. Kale was staring wide-eyed at the paper. "He killed me?"

John told him, "His story was that you tried to escape, fleeing the scene of your crime, and he shot you before discovering what you'd done. Everybody believed him, except me." My would-be murderer stared from me to John, and back to me. "But you're not dead and I'm not dead."

At which point Elphias walked into the room. "This makes this harder for me. But not impossible."

Elphias blocked the door, and I remembered again what a big guy he was. I cursed the anti-apparition ward I have around my house. He wasn't lean and hard like John, but he was big and chunky and the gun he pointed straight at me made him a lot bigger.

The wand on my hand felt useless. I knew that by the time I cast any spell, he could have shot all of us. I felt my knees buckle under me.

I had been scared of the man who had come to kill me, but I was more scared of Elphias. I have faced dangers before but he was of a different breed. Despite the fact he's a traitorous snake. He was genteel. He was both respected and respectable. He had a lot of connections. Law partners, parents, siblings, guys he went yachting with, guys he went big-game hunting with.

What about me? Who did I have on this side of the world? I had the Merlin's Imaginarium Writers, whose odd-lot appearance and diverse lifestyles would make their testimony a hard sell. My family is in Australia, unaware they even have a daughter and my friends are back home in England.

But at least, for the moment, I had John. He hadn't yet disappeared, but was probably going to any second.

On one hand, there were three of us, and only one Elphias.

On the other hand, Elphias knew how to use his gun and had every other advantage, too.

Then there was Kale, would-be hit man, pond scum, violent criminal, said, "You shot me in the back, you son of a bitch." With his wrists were still under John's stunning spell but he lunged to his feet, yanked the gun out of my hands and charged Elphias with a speed and a fury that made me realize Kale could have been on me and I would have been dead before my reflexes even had a chance. I scooped up wand from my pocket as Kale's animal leap launched him across my bed towards Elphias. Elphias swung his gun away from me to protect himself.

Kale's gun jammed, and Elphias shot him. He dropped in a bloody heap on my bedspread. Elphias underestimated me. You see, I was still Hermione Granger, the girl who fought in a war. It was purely instinctive and with a deafening blast from my wand, Elphias flew across the room with his head hitting a metal decoration on the wall and the John Grisham wannabe of the wizardry world was flung to his death.

* * *

John introduced himself to the cops as John Liu, of Liu Detective Agency, and told them I'd hired him to check out the man I was dating. He presented them with his card and a folder from his backpack that included copies of documents on which Elphias had forged my signature, giving him control of my estate, naming him as my next of kin for all my personal effects. He handed them what he said was a phone tap of Kale getting the date and time of my murder from Elphias. He said it was clean, that the affidavit was in the folder.

The cops sent someone to the ER to talk to Kale, who admitted that Elphias had hired him to murder me. He also said that he hadn't intended to do it. No one believed him.

It was the end of a long, exhausting day.

John sat across the table from me in the hotel room we'd rented, his leg stitched and bandaged, working his way through room service steak and eggs, salad, roll and a dessert of questionable origin.

"What happens now?" I asked him. "What do you want to happen?" He asked me back.

"I want to be with you forever. I just keep waiting for this beam of light to surround you and whisk you out of my life, and I want to know how much longer we have."

Then he gave me that beautiful smile of his once more. The one that melted me from the moment I saw it.

"I'm staying," he said. "What about your time? What about the Unspeakables and Research Historians? Won't someone be along to drag you back?"

"I can never go back," he said. "The magical world of my time is more in tune with the muggle world. The instant I loaded my life data onto the internet through your computer and went after Kale so he couldn't come through your window to kill you, I broke my connection to home. I created a new branch in time, a new past relative to my own time. In this past, you live. The magical theorems of your generation erred in their belief of paradox. They do not understand that paradox can be prevented if certain time travel rules are followed and that is much too complicated for me to go into. But needless to say, what I did created what is called an alternate future. In the past I come from, you always will have died but there's no way to this past from there and no way there from here."

The piqued Hermione's interest but John shook his head before she could ask. "You and Harry were meant to save Buckbeak. There's something different about Harry. Historical Researchers theorized that his mother's protection of him gave him protection from paradox or something. Or maybe it was meant to be. There's still an on-going debate for that one." He said ruefully.

"What about your family and your friends?" Hermione asked. "I'll miss them. But I had a dangerous job, and they knew it, and so did I. Research historians get swallowed into alternate pasts from time to time. It's why we travel with life data."

"Which do what?" Hermione asked.

"In your time, they create validation in public databases for all the information that lets me prove who I am. Every research historian working in the age of the internet carries a life data with him that creates a name, social security number, driver's license… all of it. Complete with past. In my case, even a nice bank account in the Muggle world and a hefty Gringotts inheritance."

"You came planning to stay?" I asked in shock.

"I came hoping to stay. If you had not been you; if you had wanted to die so your books would live on; if you had not wanted me. I would have disappeared. I just would have blinked back to where I was supposed to be."

"But you've given up everything to be here. You decided knowing that I had just met you. You couldn't know whether I would change my mind and now you can't ever go back."

"Life doesn't come with guarantees, Hermione. What it does come with are chances. You're the chance I wanted to take."

I slid my hand into his. I might never be famous. I might never change someone's life (even though some would argue that I've done my part in the British Wizarding World but I feel it's more Harry's thing). I swear I'll try… but when I'm gone, maybe no one will remember my name except for a bunch of magical students who likes chocolate frogs and maybe read a small footnote in Hogwarts A History. That's all right. At least, I know what it is to be loved and I know what it means to love. The chance I've won is better than any guarantee.

* * *

 **Prequel or Sequel?**

Fifteen year old John was sulking. He wanted to look at the new brooms instead of being dragged to this second hand dusty bookstore. His mother however charmed both of them to be unable to go beyond a few meters apart, distrusting John not to get into any trouble. His older sister was adamant she wanted to get some more books into her trunk before they head off to Hogwarts.

If he complained about it, he knew his parents would take his sister's side because, of course, they encouraged reading. He was looking for a good Quidditch book when his hand touched a hardbound second hand book. Since his sister was likely to camp in this bookstore until it closes for the day, he might as well do something with his time.

He shrugged to himself turning the page of "The Shadows Beyond the Veil". On the jacket of the book was a bushy haired woman who looked to be in her 20s with an older guy beside her who looks strangely familiar. He'd return this book to the shelf if it turns out to be one of those sappy romance novels his sisters favor where a hero saves the heroine. He would spend the next few hours engrossed with that book and spend what should have been his broom money on a few more of this author's work.

Hermione Granger established a magical work that seems parallel to the one she lived in but with different tones and touching different aspects of realities and situations. She edited and wrote war memoirs and was the author of hundreds of books on fantasy and time travel.


End file.
